


Normal

by smkaplan



Category: Sefer Shmuel | Book of Samuel, תנ"ך | Tanakh
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Backstory, Brief NSFW, David is extremely sexy and everyone needs to know this, Definite biblical and historical inaccuracies but hey that's what fanfiction is for right, Dreams, M/M, Pre-Canon, Pre-Relationship, kind of, or maybe not...
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-19
Updated: 2020-03-19
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:54:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23210566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smkaplan/pseuds/smkaplan
Summary: Sha’ul laughs dryly. “Well, I suppose it’s worth saying if only to see the look on your face, my boy. I’ve spoken with Samuel the prophet and he has appointed me king of Yisrael.”The steady thump of fresh dough on hard wood that had underscored their conversation comes to a halt. Yehonatan doesn’t notice: a buzzing in his ears has risen to cover all other noise or lack thereof. Sha’ul speaks again, or at least his mouth moves, but his words are drowned out by a thousand invisible insects suddenly filling the room.King, he thinks he says. He doesn’t know if the words make it out, but Sha’ul seems to understand, and nods. Of all Yisrael, he tries. Sha’ul nods again.Yehonatan stares into his own eyes, duplicated in his father’s face. He’s going to be king, he thinks, and so, therefore, I’m going to be king.***Yehonatan ben Sha’ul is normal, but that's sure to change.
Relationships: David | Dāūd/Yehonatan | Jonathan, Yehonatan | Jonathan/Original Male Character
Comments: 3
Kudos: 17





	Normal

Yehonatan ben Sha’ul isn’t average. At only 19, not even old enough to be conscripted, he stands almost as tall as his father, who towers a head above the average Yisraeli. Besides the height, so too did he inherit his father’s good looks, turning the heads of most young women (and many a lad) in their community of Gibeah. Six years a man, his dark beard has begun to fill in nicely, and his striking grey eyes always seem to twinkle in the sunlight. 

And yet, he’s  _ normal _ . His work in the fields has lent him strength, but his inherent leanness would suit him less towards fighting rank-and-file and more to leading the army, a position he can hardly hope to achieve as the son of a farmer. Sha’ul, as ever, is conflicted: he would never bring it up, but Yehonatan knows that, while his father does not want to lose his first-born, the acclaim given to the family of a successful warrior is great, whether they return alive or dead. His work in the fields is acceptable, and helps feed the family, but no father can help but to hope for a son through whom to be lifted to glory. 

And of course, there’s the other… disappointment. Despite much poking and prodding, and a cornucopia of suitable and eager prospects, Yehonatan has not taken a wife. He has not “taken” any women, actually, whatever the rumors around the village may be.

Tonight, he lies in a hay pile, noting the season’s constellations while Natan, a talented young man from the fields next to Sha’ul’s, works Yehonatan’s member with one calloused palm and brings himself off with the other. They finish and he wipes his hands on the grass, plopping down next to Yehonatan.

“Good?”

“Yes,” Yehonatan replies lazily, pushing his tunic back down and returning to the sky.

The silence stretches out around them. A dragonfly flits past, buzzing a symphony with its tired wings.

“Have you heard what’s going on in the cities?”

Yehonatan hasn’t heard. As it is, he hasn’t found himself much one for pillow talk, at least not with any of the men he’s known so far. He stretches a hand back, curling it behind his face and kicking up a knee. He feels relaxed, sated; the feeling of undefined absence that’s been plaguing him recently is quelled for the moment.

“It’s really quite something,” Natan continues, not getting the hint. Yehonatan shoots him a glance.

“Is it now…?”

“They say the people are asking for a king. That Shmuel HaNavi has agreed.”

“Hmm.”

“They say he will be chosen from among the people. That he won’t be a priest or a prophet, but a common man, a pious man, favored by Elohim.” Natan sighs dreamily. “Imagine that, Yehonatan: being king! Royalty! People bowing down to you wherever you go, commanding the entire Yisraeli army, eating lavishly every night, lying with whoever you choose.” He stops, remembering their previous activities. “Not that this isn’t nice, of course. But, well, you know.”

Yehonatan thinks. None of that particularly appeals to him, really. He has a fine life here: lacking in excitement, but comfortable, fulfilling. Besides, a king is required to produce heirs, and he’s still holding out hope of convincing his father to pass the line through Avinadav, tradition be damned.

“Of course, I’m sure he won’t be a Binyami,” Natan starts up again. “He’ll be Yosefi, or maybe Yehudi if anything. No one’s ever cared about little Binyamin.”

“Everyone cared about Binyamin,” Yehonatan corrects, surprising himself. “They just underestimated him.”

Natan laughs. “I didn’t see you as much of a historian, Yehonatan. Maybe you’ll be chosen as advisor to the king. Or, best case scenario,” he winks, “companion to one of his sons.”

Yehonatan actually cracks a smile at this. “I suppose that wouldn’t be so bad, would it.” He returns to the stars, as if he could read in them his future. “No, not so bad at all.”

Eventually they rise, the world still dark around them; if they were to return after sunrise, their families would already be up and preparing for the day, and their absences would be thoroughly questioned. Natan leans up to kiss Yehonatan goodbye and Yehonatan, surprising himself once again, lets him. They trail off in opposite directions, making vague plans to meet at a later date.

Natan is fine enough to lie with, Yehonatan supposes, good with his hands and conveniently located. Nothing special. His news about the prophet, while almost certainly false, was nonetheless entertaining.

He meanders through the field, kicking up clods of dirt with his bare feet. In truth, he could’ve stayed longer, had he better company; Sha’ul is away from Gibeah, looking for some donkeys that had wandered off, and the rest of the family doesn’t pay nearly as much attention to the whereabouts and goings-on of his first-born son.

Yehonatan makes it back just as the household begins to stir. Ishboshet, washing his face at the well, shoots him a curious glance but stays silent. The youngest at only ten, he’s still three years from becoming a man, and remains mostly innocent about the ways of the world. Yehonatan rustles his hair playfully, eliciting a yelp from the lad. 

“No, Yehoni, I just styled it!” he cries, smoothing the curls back into place. Well, maybe not completely innocent.

“Is that so?” he asks guilelessly, scooping his own handful of water and cleaning the sweat and bits of hay off his neck and shoulders. “Why? Is today a festival day I wasn’t aware of?”

The boy blushes, bright red staining his brown skin. “N-no, no reason, I just wanted t- to look nice today, that’s all. You know, for Elohim.” He glances at the sky as if in prayer, composing himself. “Anyways, what were  _ you  _ doing? You know with Abba gone you're s’posed to be watching us.”

Yehonatan rolls his eyes. Elohim bless little brothers. “I went for a walk,” he replies, “and that’s that. Now run inside and see if Eema needs any help. I’m going to check on the sheep, Malkishua is taking them to pasture today and he needs to get an early start.” He turns, hiding a yawn; hopefully he’ll be able to sneak off and take a quick nap once Malki is on his way. 

Ishboshet scampers off into the house, doing a casual cartwheel on his way. Yehonatan shakes his head: kids, what can you do?

He stretches, peering out at the single dirt path as he’s done every morning for the past week. But today is different: far off in the distance he spots two familiar figures, one noticeably taller than the other even from here, leading a pack of donkeys. He waves merrily, but they don’t seem to spot him yet. 

“Eema, yeladim,” he calls out, “Abba is returning, and he’s succeeded!”

The family stumbles out, Akhinoam and the girls still covered in flour from the bread they’d been kneading. Chores abandoned in their excitement, the group stands in front of their home, jumping and waving as Sha’ul and his servant draw near. 

But the closer they get, the more Yehonatan feels like something is wrong. One by one, he and the others fall silent, each noticing the same thing: Sha’ul looks deeply, deeply worried. Yehonatan does a quick tally: every animal is accounted for, and they don’t look too worse for ware besides. The two men look healthy and uninjured as well, though the servant seems to be giving his master somewhat of a wide berth. 

Finally, Sha’ul seems to awaken from his thoughts and raises a hand in greeting. Akhinoam rushes to meet him and they embrace, but he quickly pulls back, leaning down to whisper something in her ear. He gestures to the servant to join the donkeys with the rest of the herd and trudges alongside his wife back to their children.

Yehonatan steps forward first, as is proper: he’s not completely lacking in respect for tradition, at least when it suits him. “Av, how was your journey?” he asks. Sha’ul only sighs, clasping his eldest’s arm. 

“We have much to discuss, my son. Join me inside, will you?” He turns to the other five. “Children, finish your chores. I won’t have this place going to Sheol in my distraction.”

Distraction? Yehonatan barely has time to wonder at his father’s words before he’s following him inside, his mother trailing behind. Merab and Michal, sensing the tension, wisely follow their brothers away from the house.

The men sit at one end of the hewn wood table, while Akhinoam returns to her kneading at the other, keeping one eye on the pair. 

Sha’ul intertwines his fingers, sets them on the table, pulls them apart. He looks down, back up, at his wife, before finally settling on Yehonatan.

“Look, Yehoni, this is- HaShem, where to start- this is a good thing. It will be a very, very good thing for us.” He takes a deep breath. “Unimaginably good.”

Yehonatan tries to calm his racing heart. Had he finally been conscripted? He must have, what else could inspire this contradictory reaction in his father? He had really thought he could avoid service, but perhaps the Philistines or some other were preparing an invasion and Yisrael needed every young body she could find. But why had no messenger come along to deliver the news directly?

He attempts a smile. “Avi, whatever it is, you can tell me. I’m strong, I won’t be frightened.”

“It just… sounds so unbelievable, to say out loud.”

“Oh… surely not  _ so  _ unbelievable.” Yehonatan’s guts begin to knot. Is Sha’ul really so unimpressed by his son, that the idea of him fighting a war is too strange to consider?

Sha’ul laughs dryly. “Well, I suppose it’s worth saying if only to see the look on your face, my boy. I’ve spoken with Shmuel HaNavi and he has appointed me king of Yisrael.”

The steady thump of fresh dough on hard wood that had underscored their conversation comes to a halt. Yehonatan doesn’t notice: a buzzing in his ears has risen to cover all other noise or lack thereof. Sha’ul speaks again, or at least his mouth moves, but his words are drowned out by a thousand invisible insects suddenly filling the room. 

_ King,  _ he thinks he says. He doesn’t know if the words make it out, but Sha’ul seems to understand, and nods.  _ Of all Yisrael _ , he tries. Sha’ul nods again. 

Yehonatan stares into his own eyes, duplicated in his father’s face.  _ He’s going to be king _ , he thinks,  _ and so, therefore,  _ I’m  _ going to be king.  _

He stands, unable to breathe, and runs from the house. The door bangs shut behind him and he hears his mother’s voice raise, but he doesn’t stay long enough to hear what she says. He just runs, runs past the well, past the haystack where only hours before he’d laughed at this very idea, past the boundaries of Sha’ul’s fields.

Slowly the buzzing fades until all Yehonatan can hear is the pounding of his bare feet against the ground. He stops, falling to his knees and gasping for breath. He looks around wildly: his surroundings are wholly unfamiliar, just grass and sand and dirt as far as he can see. He’d been running for what, fifteen minutes? Twenty?  _ No matter, _ he thinks. _ It’s not worth going back, anyhow. _

He sits back, pulling his tunic back to air his shaking legs. The sun has fully risen by now and shines painfully in his dust-filled eyes. He turns away, seeking whatever comfort he can, and spots a figure approaching from the North. 

Yehonatan squints, rubbing his eyes. As far as he can tell, he’s past the edges of Gibeah, and no one really comes out here unless they’re traveling long distances. Could he be near Anatot already?

“Hi, friend,” they call, making Yehonatan jump; he hadn’t noticed them getting so close. He shades his eyes against the sun and considers the newcomer. They- he?- are short and slim, with smooth skin and thick shiny dark hair tied back from their face. They’re wearing a baggy tunic covering up any distinguishing bodily features and their lovely melodic voice is high enough to be androgynous. Also, they’re stunningly beautiful.

“Hi?” they say again, jogging the last few yards to where Yehonatan is sitting. From this angle he can see a prominent Adam’s apple below the beginnings of a strong jawline. A young man, then. Heat pools in Yehonatan’s gut: he’s never seen anyone this beautiful in his short life. He thinks he’s a little bit in love.

“Hello,” he says, tongue-tied. “What, uh- what?”

The young man considers him. “How long have you been out here?” he asks.

“I’m- not sure.”

“Hm. No wonder.” He pulls out a waterskin and tosses it to Yehonatan. “Can’t have you dying of thirst, can we?”

Yehonatan catches it, baruch HaShem, and takes a much-needed sip. “Thank you,” he replies, handing it back. The other shakes his head.

“Nah, keep it, looks like you could use it. I’m almost home anyways.”

Yehonatan stops mid-gulp. “You’re from Gibeah?”

The young man raises one eyebrow, which Yehonatan somehow finds extremely attractive. “Huh, you’re really out of it, then. Friend, I’m on my way to Beit-Lekhem. Are  _ you  _ from Gibeah?”

“I-  _ Beit-Lekhem? _ I think I- well, I  _ thought _ I would’ve noticed if I’d passed through Jerusalem on my way.”

Stroking his hairless chin, the Yehudi considers him. “Well, what sort of host would I be if I didn’t offer a little hospitality? Walk back with me and we’ll freshen you up and send you on your way, how does that sound?” He winks, for some reason, and offers a hand to Yehonatan.

“That sounds… wonderful,” Yehonatan admits, grasping the offered hand. He tries to stand and groans in pain. “But I don’t think I can stand right now. Apparently I just ran about fifteen miles, so…”

“Ah, that’s no problem, I can wait.” The young man drops down next to him and stretches out, tilting his already browned face into the sun. Yehonatan stares at his profile and sort of wants to cry.

“So, what brought you all this way?” he asks, eyes still closed. Yehonatan quickly looks away.

“Well, it’s… it’s been a strange morning.”  _ Even stranger now _ , he thinks.

“Oh?”

“Yes, it. Well, it started with my… uh, friend, who told me a rumor he’d heard about Shmuel HaNavi…” He tells the story, which doesn’t feel quite as interesting now as it had to live it. When he reaches the climax, his companion laughs. It’s a beautiful laugh, like the ringing of every bell in Jerusalem, and Yehonatan needs to hear it again.

“King! That’s fantastic! But let me guess, you got scared and ran away?”

Yehonatan scoffs. “‘Scared’ and ‘ran away’ sound a little harsh, but… in essence, yes.” He takes a deep breath. “Do you really think it’s fantastic? I feels sick, just thinking about it. I don’t know what I’m going to do when I return… if I even decide to return.”

“Hmm. Well, I would think so. The power to shape the future of Yisrael? To keep the tribes united? To help our people?”

Yehonatan finds himself nodding along despite himself. “When you put it like that- wait, what did you say about the tribes? Has there been a threat of dissolution?”

The young man frowns slightly. “Ah, just whispers in the town square. I wouldn’t think much of it. Although, now it’ll be your job to think about things like that, won’t it?”

“By HaShem, it will be, won’t it.” He falls back into the sand, covering his face. “Last night, my friend, I was- was going where I wanted, saying what I wanted,  _ bedding  _ whom I wanted… and now I’m heir to a throne. To  _ the  _ throne. It’s just… too much.”

The other man lies back to join him, face to face. “If you’re really so bothered by this incredible opportunity, I could always return in your place.” He grins brightly. “And I honestly don’t think a lack of nubile young bedmates is going to be a problem, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Yehonatan rolls his eyes at the idea of switching places. Besides similar coloring (that they share with most Yisraelim) there isn’t much of a resemblance between the two men. Even at the most basic level, well, his feet stretch at least two palms past the other’s. But now he finds his eyes traveling the length of the young man’s body, and he feels a bright flush rise to his cheeks.  _ That’s just wonderful, isn’t it.  _ In a rush he sits up, taking another sip of water to hide his flurry of emotions.

“I’m feeling much better,” he says, finding it to be true. “Should we be off?” He stands, towering above the still-reclining figure, and offers a hand in an inverse of their previous position. The young man smiles up at him.

“I just realized I never asked for you name,” he says, not moving. “Though I suppose I’ll be learning it soon enough either way, ha!”

“Oh, uh. Yehonatan. Ben Sha’ul,” Yehonatan replies awkwardly. His companion jumps to his feet without the offered assistance.

“Yehonatan! That’s beautiful, I shall have to write a song about it.” He grasps Yehonatan’s still outstretched hand in both of his own. Yehonatan notices now the calloused fingertips typical of a musician, oddly juxtaposed with the roughened palms of a man familiar with hard work.

“You- compose?” he asks, blinded by this passionate outburst and by the feeling of warmth rushing from his hand and spreading through his body.

“Ah, only as I tend my father’s sheep,” the young man replies excitedly. “But I intend on making it my craft. One day, I dream, all of Yisrael will know the name-”

And he’s gone.

Yehonatan looks up from his position on the hard ground into the face of Michal, his youngest sister.

“Abba, Eema, come quick!” she yells. “I’ve found him!”

Pain shoots through his head at her shouts. He lightly touches his forehead, wincing as his fingers return stained with blood. “Where- where did the man go?”

Michal looks back down at him, eyebrows knitted. “Yehoni, we haven’t seen anyone else here. Did someone attack you?”

He struggles, even with her help, to sit up. Blood rushes to his head and Michal tears a strip off her tunic to stanch the bleeding. She hands him a waterskin and he drinks greedily.

“No, he was- he was beautiful, he helped me, he gave me water, he…” He pauses. “Michal, is this your waterskin?”

“Uh, no, I thought it was yours? It was lying next to you when I found you”

“But, it- never mind. I must have forgotten grabbing it.” He turns it over in his hands: the craftsmanship is excellent, but wholly unfamiliar. “Also, this may sound like a strange question, but where exactly are we?”

“Just at the edge of Abba’s fields.” She studies him closely. “Are you sure you’re ok?”

“I-” He shakes his head. “I was dreaming. I simply must have been dreaming. I fell and hit my head and I was dreaming. That’s all.”

His sister doesn’t look entirely convinced. “You nearly cracked your head open, and while you were passed out you dreamed about… being rescued by some beautiful man??”

“Ah… near Beit-Lekhem. Yes.”

Michal throws back her head and laughs. “You thought you ran all the way to Beit-Lekhem?! Akhi, even  _ you’re _ not in  _ that _ good shape.”

He glares at her while she continues to laugh, and laugh, and laugh. Little sisters can be nearly as bad as little brothers. “It isn’t  _ completely  _ illogical! But, it did seem a little strange at- at the time, I suppose.” He wobbles to his feet. “Will you please stop laughing?”

“Fine, but I want to hear more about this ‘beautiful man’,” she acquiesces, rising to grab onto her brother’s arm. “And where are our parents? I called for them ages ago.”

“Abba is likely busy with… other things, right now.”

“Oh, do you mean the whole ‘Abba is king of Yisrael’ thing?” She rolls her eyes. “Yes, they called us all inside and told us right after you ran off. Honestly, it doesn’t seem like a very big deal to me. Anyways, Abba was the one who told us to go look for you when you didn’t come back, so I would think he cares about the results. And don’t start in with ‘oh is he too important to search for his eldest son now’,” she continues, “because you  _ know  _ that his back has been bothering him lately. So that is that.”

She lifts her chin to signal the end of the conversation; Yehonatan can already see her as a princess. He’s just not sure that he’s a prince.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!! A quick Hebrew glossary (I may have used some of them wrong so please lmk if I did haha):
> 
> Ben- son of  
> Abba- dad  
> Eema- mom  
> Akhi- my brother  
> Av- more formal term for father  
> Avi- my father  
> Yeladim- children  
> Sheol- kind of the Jewish afterlife but it's complicated, sometimes thought of more like hell (has anyone ever actually said "going to Sheol"? Probably not but I find it funny sooo)  
> HaNavi- The Prophet  
> Baruch HaSham- thank G-d
> 
> According to the info and maps I found, Gibeah was north of Jerusalem and Beit-Lekhem was south, with maybe 15 miles between the two (though that's a very rough estimate and also these places existed thousands of years ago). Anatot was a few miles east of Gibeah.


End file.
